


The Near Star Shone

by ThirstySatyr



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ancient British Isles, Ancient Gaul - Freeform, Ancient Greece, Ancient Rome, Ancient Sweeden, Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Congrats! Here's a commemorative pen!, Demon Aziraphale (Good Omens), Feminist Aziraphale, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Morosexual Aziraphale, Multi, Not that there is much Gaul-ishness about it, Pansexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pansexual Character, Promotions!, Scene: Garden of Eden (Good Omens), Sex Positive, homophagia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-08-12 03:38:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20146402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirstySatyr/pseuds/ThirstySatyr
Summary: One angel Fell during the Great Rebellion. One was kept busy, hanging stars.But life on Earth has begun, and some stars were always meant to cross.[A/N: "What if Aziraphale was the demon?", I asked myself for no particular reason.]





	1. Light of the Near Star, and Disgusting Emptiness

He’d kept to the shadows since he’d arrived. No need to startle the little things; they were so young. Though, perhaps, being startled wasn’t something they understood just yet. After all, the knowledge of what was startling – frightening – terrifying – _horrifying_ – hadn’t been given to them yet, had it?

Still, he’d kept to the shadows since he’d arrived. It seemed prudent not to draw too much attention in this place at the nascence of the world, so verdant and gravid with life. He let the shadows conceal much of himself, only letting the light of the near star touch the edge of his forepaws, his bleached-bone-white claws kept tucked neatly away under yellow-white fur. On occasion, he would tilt his head just so, letting that bright daylight shine on the blue-grey of his eyes, just enough to let her see, call her near without raising a sound.

She was the smaller, of the two of them. It wasn’t really fair. He knew, though she did not (yet), that with disparities of strength, came disparities of power. Then came words like _ stronger _ and _ better _ and _ know your place _. It made his hackles rise, made the fur along his spine stand on end, his bone-yellow wings mantle without his permission. How he hated those words.

The words that came after, though – _ rejection, denial, rebuttal, rebuke, question, disobedience, rebellion, refuse, refuse, refuse..._ He liked those words quite a bit.

So he kept to the shadows, but let the daylight play on his forepaws and around his eyes. He kept his voice soft, his words gentle, his purr sweet and inviting. He spoke to her, the smaller of the two, about seeing, about wanting, about having. He led her to the tree, with its deep, velvety shadows, and its red, red fruit. This she knew, that the tree and its heavy, sweetly handing burden were not for her. What she did not know was why – so he asked, and she could not answer.

He asked if she wanted to know why, and she did not answer.

Not at first.

She did not speak of him to the other one, to the larger one, with his strength, and his speed, and his power. She thought, and spoke to the shadows, and he within the shadows, spoke back.

“The knowing, my dear, is the only way to be sure. It will be tart and sharp on your tongue, but it will be sweet as well. It will crunch like bones, and melt like water in your mouth. It will fill your stomach and your mind. You will know, my dear. You will know. And the knowing will give you a different kind of strength – the strength of choice.”

He did not expect her to hand the fruit to the other one. Her face had been… divine as she’d tasted. As she’d learned right and wrong, fairness and selfishness. Exultant. He did not expect her to share that moment with the other.

But he did not stop her. It was, after all, her choice.

<->

There was a figure standing on the Wall of Eden. A pillar swathed in the reds of sunset, bright and luminous against the slowly darkening sky.

It was another angel, sunrise-red wings tucked tight to his back; the smell was unmistakable, even amid the layers of ozone and ashen stardust.

With a single leap, a single beat of heavy wings, he was on the Wall. Despite his silent landing - or perhaps because of it, he saw a small, quickly repressed, ripple of fear run through the new come angel. A single blank look from gold-tinted eyes was all the acknowledgment he received, before the angel turned back toward the sea of sands held at bay by the Wall of Eden.

“They are so fragile,” the angel spoke, as if to no one. “The All Mighty’s beloved children, but so fragile.”

Yes – fragile. He’d seen it from the beginning, as clay had dried in the baking sun, turning dark and rich and alive; breakable beneath the skin, trembling and pulsing. Fragile.

“Is that why you took the sword, demon, and gave it to them?” the angel spoke again, his question now quite directed.

If he was surprised to be addressed, he was careful to let it show only in the shifting of his arched tail.

“The Principality at the Eastern Gate was pathetic and weak. A poor excuse for a soldier, really,” he scoffed, lightly, wanting and not wanting to insult in equal measure. The extinguished body of said Principality was spread out just to the left of where he and the angel stood, blood still running onto the stones of the Wall. The new, red-swathed angel didn’t seem to mind.

If this was to be a _ conversation _, he did not want to spend it looking up. Shaking his mane and wings, the scales of his tail rattling sharply, he changed, shifted, until he stood beside the angel. They were still of a different height, which bothered him, some, but not enough to change again.

The angel gave him another look, his expression as blank as the previous.

“What are you doing here?” he finally asked, abrupt, but trying for something bordering on civil.

“I am to bear witness,” was all the angel replied.

“Witness to what?”

“God’s creation. The humans’ trespass on the Tree of Knowledge. You, demon, – tempting, lying.”

“I _ am _ Fallen.”

“Helping them.”

A crack of thunder clawed its way through the air, a growl like the sky was passing judgement.

“They… I couldn’t let them out into that,” he gestured, disgusted by the rolling emptiness of the desert surrounding Eden, “… fragile and alone.”

The angel’s golden eyes just watched him, bearing unmoved witness.

“I wasn’t going to let my hard work go to waste. Nothing more, my dear angel. Don’t get any ideas.”

He felt his wings mantle in irritation, unthinkingly canting them forward to block the sharp droplets of water suddenly falling from the sky. That the curve of his wings was high enough for the taller angel to fit under wasn’t worth considering.


	2. Rain Was a Terrible Creation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rain was a terrible creation.

“Rain was a terrible creation.”

“The humans will soon agree with you.”

He growled, letting something of his beastial shape manifest in this throat. That hadn’t been the answer he’d wanted.

“Your beloved God is going to kill these people, good, dear angel. All of them; the elderly, the children, the innocent and guilty. Drowned in a righteous sea of… of… pettiness, if you ask me.”

“I… yes. I… I know. All of them. Even the children.”

He wanted to snarl, maybe growl again, perhaps scream and howl. But the angel’s voice stopped him. Where the angel had been blank and stoic at first, humming about humans and agreement and rain, his voice had seemed… lost when he’d mentioned children. 

Gentler than he’d thought he was capable, he replied, “Yes, angel. The children are going to die here.”

There was a quick flash of a sneer, before the angel smoothed his expression back to neutral.

“Thank you, demon. I am aware of what I will bear witness to.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What? Demon? Shall I call you Fallen, instead? Lost? Of the Host of the Damned?” the angel asked, his face contorting again from the neutrality he seemed to prefer. 

“Please stop. You sound ridiculous. Don’t call me any of that - I can’t stand being lumped in with the rest of that seething mass of spite, and… and… honestly, they’re all just plain rude most of the time.”

The angel turned away from him, back to neutrally _ bearing witness _(staring blankly, more like) to the great beast of a boat being built in the distance. “And what shall I call you, instead, demon?” he asked without inflection, lost in the vision cast by the approaching rain. “By the name you gave up when you chose to go against The All Mighty? Seems presumptuous.” 

“And why not? It’s _ my _ name. And it suits me rather well, thank you. Being Fallen hasn’t changed me that much, my dear _ angel _.” The last was said with a sneer, daring the angel to look back at him. He was a sight, he knew; sun-bleached white hair in loose curls around his shoulders, like the mane from his beastial form. Skin like taught parchment. Eyes like the sky on the day they met, blue touched with a horizon-bound storm. And he wanted the angel’s golden eyes to turn to him, to turn away from the boat and the future it foretold.

When the angle did turn, unblinking gold, it abruptly struck him that he wasn’t sure he wanted to share his true name, for all his bluster otherwise. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to angel to know _ him. _

“Zira,” he eventually spoke, chin lifted, eyes direct and defiant. 

The angel blinked rapidly at him, apparently remembering that blinking was vital to keeping sand out of one’s eyes. Or, perhaps it was confusion. 

“I don’t recall an angel named ‘Zira’.”

“Perhaps I’m a special one, angel.”

And, to prove his point, a bit of Zira’s power rolled out from his center.

“What… what was that?” the angel asked, still watching him, still turned away from the boat and the future, if only for a few more moments. 

“Nothing for you to worry about. Just… wondering at God’s will that everyone around us die very shortly. The women, the men, the old, and…” he trailed off with a small smile, the sharpness of his incisors just flashing behind his lips.

“And the young,” the angel closed his eyes, and turned away again. “ Yes. I know.”

“What young?”

An angelic scoff was the only reply.

“No, really. There are no children for hectares. Oh, had you missed that during all of your witnessing?”

Wide, startled golden eyes turned to him, then turned, scanning the desert and the villages hidden within its hills.

“What have you done, demon?”

He shrugged before answering, buffing his thick nails with the coarse fabric of his clothing. “Rebelled against God’s plan, of course. What else should a _ demon _do?”

“Fine, fine - Zira. What have you done with the children?”

“A little change of household, that’s all.” Zira waved at the hill and the boat which was slowly closing its doors. “There is a carpenter who has just found himself father and grandfather to a great many more children then he’d originally thought. I imagine they’ll barely make it through the voyage with enough food. Cramped. Laborious. And after - ah, after; desperation, anger, a desire to be as far from their family as possible. Oh, angel, it should be lovely.”

A tight, vicious little smile pulled at his mouth as he turned to the angel. It fell away almost immediately.

“What?”

He’d hoped to turn the angel’s clean neutralness to something a little closer to abject horror; a ship designed for a menagerie but only fewer than twenty people suddenly asked to protect nearly a hundred - it was ghastly to think about. The smell alone was worth a little retching. But the angel didn’t seem to be thinking of that. If anything, the great red-hued idiot seemed pleased. 

“Not very courteous of you, is it, dem - ah, Zira?” he began, as he brushed quickly dampening red hair back from his face. “Calling me that - refusing to call me by my name?”

Irritated more than anything, Zira huffed and rolled his eyes. “Can’t call what I don’t know, _ angel _.”

Another angelic scoff, only this one sounded less defeated.

“Do stop calling me ‘angel’. It's Archangel, if you must. Archangel Tsophiel.”

There was very little color to the skin of Zira's face. What there was, he felt drain away with a feeling very much like dread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rain was a terrible creation.  
(Lies; I love the rain.)


	3. A Change of Weather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here and there.

Laughter was one of Zira’s favorite things to be found on Earth. There was laughter in Hell, but it was generally sarcastic or aimed at someone in the process of losing a limb.

On Earth, however, laughter was a kaleidoscope; sometimes sarcastic, sometimes cruel, but more often joyful and warm and let loose in celebration!

Heracles, in particular, had a singular gift for filling any given space with his laughter, igniting mirth and ebullience in those around him. A bit overly religious for Zira’s taste - what with changing his name to reflect the current female face of God - but over all, having the run of Greece with him was a delight the demon had not anticipated. 

And running was the operative word. It was nearly impossible to keep Heracles still - if he wasn’t running, he was jogging, if he wasn’t jogging he was baring his skin and swimming, and if he wasn’t swimming he was pulling his friends into wrestling matches. 

And the stories he’d tell! Who else would have claimed to have battled a lion bare-handed? Who else could tell the story of cleaning out horse stalls and turn it into an adventure, a feat to be toasted?

Every moment with the man was a delight.

It almost made Zira forget how he distrusted men as a whole, their entire tall, broad shouldered, thick limbed lot. But Heracles, he made Zira see something different for a few years. The wine ran freely in the time before Zira would hear that Heracles turned the wide, capable warmth of his hands against his own wife and children.

<->

Zira remembered Eve; she had been the smaller of the two.

A change of weather was in order.

<->

Zira did not give a visit to the so-called Son of God. He’d had enough of Godly things and the children thereof. He let other demons - his despised  _ brethren _ , those wall-chewing, dirt-dwelling, hierarchy-keeping idiots - handle that situation. Let them throw every temptation known to humanity at whatever poor creature had been sent to Earth to fulfill the nonsensical whims of an absent parent. He was busier with much more important things. 

Like mead. 

He liked the Suiones people, in their snow-rimed villages. He liked their men, too. Especially the ones that would wander into the woods, a little too drunk on their lovely mead.

They were delicious.

What a pleasure to discover that he liked brined meat.

And when the dark mists of the forest proved too damp and too shadowy, Zira found delicious things elsewhere. Because the Suiones people had more than just mead and drunken men. Around village fires, with people singing, Zira found the people to be rowdy without being filthy about it. They bathed and styled their yellow hair in beautiful braids; a child or two had offered Zira such service, admiring as they were of his shoulder-length curls. Their hair was of a colour, but always wonderfully organized and straight. The people loved good food, good song, good blades, and good drink. They wore perfume and danced, the men and women and the sexes in between all together. They fought and laughed. It reminded him...

When Zira was too far in his drink, he sang with them, letting them hear his voice, the one that ripped out from him when he was beastial, four paws digging into the dirt, his sickly-yellow tail arched above his back and dripping venom. And still they laughed, because they too were too far into their drink. They would not have survived his beastial form, not as Eve had. Eve with her questioning eyes and eager mind. Eve with her insistent voice and beautiful questions. 

It was a woman and her husband that managed to quiet his song. He could see that their marriage would not last the winter, but in that moment, on that night, when miles and miles away a man who was not a man died in agony, their passion for one another shone brighter than the fire that Zira and the rest of the village had gathered around. When they left the nightly meal, wrapped around each other and oblivious in their private universe, Zira followed. 

Into their cabin, he followed.

As they stripped one another of fabric, he saw. 

As they joined together into one being, he wanted. 

As they fell asleep in each other's arms, he decided that he would have.

Seeing and wanting and having. 

Perhaps it was time to move on from the north.


	4. Off Your Fennel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having in the Rome of Gaius Julius.

Rome was a lovely place. _ Having _was so easy to have in Rome.

A quick bit of power, and there was a lovely home vacant for the next several months while the usual occupant left the city to visit an ailing family member; the family member would recover, of course, though might be lacking a small fraction of a limb afterward. The slaves who “worked” at the residence, Zira freed immediately, handed them each a purse of silver, a blade, and very precise directions as to where their former owner might be found. It was, of course, their choice what to do with that information. 

And the women, oh! They were not as free with their strength as the Suiones had been. But their confidence, their poise - it made him salivate with something other than a hunger for food. It took a few days - filled with good meals, lovely song, and a truly entertaining play - to find exactly the woman he wanted.

“I’m not from the city,” Zira started by way of introduction once he’d opened the door and led the way to the bedchamber. The woman, a wealthy actress with a reputation for wit, laughed as she placed her lyre on a couch in the moderately-opulent room.

“I could have told you that - your hair, your skin. Your appearance speaks of a territory to the north, young Lord.”

He appreciated her observation skills, but an unpleasant sourness still flooded his mouth at her words. “Please, no... no ranks. I hope you will consider the both of us equal today. Or… well, perhaps not equal. I come to you as a student to a teacher.”

That seemed to catch her attention, her professionally pleasant smile giving way to curiosity. She sat on the edge of the bed, letting the cream fabric of her clothes fall around her body in an artificial, but still quite flattering way. Zira smiled in appreciation, his eyes traveling from her sunset-blonde hair to her painted and en-ringed toes, before continuing with a smile.

“You see, my dear, you are correct. My father holds lands in a northern territory. And, though prosperous, we lack much of what would be considered civilized. Most depressingly, we lack women like you.” He said it with a small smile, his eyes brightened to be seen as sincere.

As her postured stiffened, Zira got the impression that she was not impressed. 

“Women like me?” she replied, through a blade-edge of a smile. “Freeborn women forced to lower themselves? What a shame.”

“No, no!” he quickly responded, genuinely concerned. He didn’t want to ruin this opportunity - he’d already put so much _ effort _into it. “My dear, I swear, I wouldn’t dream of insulting you so. Our territory lacked women like you, yes - so blessed by Juno! So blessed by Minerva! So blessed by… well… by Venus, herself.”

A few moments passed as she seemed to think over his words, her bright hazel eyes remaining sharp.

“That is many Goddesses to be blessed by,” she said after the silence had become slightly uncomfortable. 

Zira rushed to assure her, closer to appeasement than he liked, “It is only the truth, my dear.”

It was another long moment before the tension in her shoulders eased, and Zira felt he’d regained some lost ground.

“Call me Hadriana,” she offered with a much more welcoming smile. “And what shall I call you, young lord - oh, sorry, no ranks.”

Zira smiled, admiring her bite. “Please, fair Hadriana - call me Aziretus.”

“Well - Aziretus - you would have me be your teacher? What do you wish to learn from our companionship this evening?”

Oh, yes - he really did like this woman; clear and to the point. Like a finely honed blade.

“I’m, well, dear Hadriana, I… I’m afraid that I need to learn… well… everything.”

Hadriana had laughed at that, but had spent the night certainly doing her best.

<->

Mouths were wonderful. 

Hands were wonderful.

They could go so many places on a body, in and on and around. 

And after she had locked their bodies together in every configuration that Zira could imagine, then the fair, clever, patient Hardiana had opened up her lyre case and brought forth what she called ‘tools in the works of Venus’... and Zira happily discovered that there was so much more to learn.

<->

After having been in Rome for a month, Zira managed to impress even himself. Truly, attending the orgy had been an _ inspired _decision. From stepping into the lavish space, Zira hadn’t felt the want of company. He was pale and pretty compared to the average Roman man, with a burgeoning softness over a runner’s physique, soft curling hair pulled back into a loose tail. It was taboo for a man of rank to take the “submissive” role during sex, and yet so many of them seemed to crave a male lover. It made Zira’s appearance and his new found enthusiasm for all things sensual quite the beacon of appeal. 

But better than the attention had been the whispers! Oh, yes... The suggestions and the implications, the soft susurrations of voices in dark corners. One of the members of the Praetorian Guard, in particular, had been quite talkative when drunk on orgasms and alcohol.

_ A rebellion_.

Arguably Zira’s favorite past time. Better than sex, as new to it as he may have been. Better than the silky tartness of mead and wine. Better than any taste that has passed through his lips. _ Rebellion _ . It seemed he’d have to stick around Rome for a little longer than he’d originally planned. And if he’d whispered back, just a little, assurances and encouragement, it was only so that the brave idiots of the Praetorian Guard didn’t let something as inconsequential as _regicide _or _treason _get in the way of their enthusiasm.

Feeling utterly pleased with himself, Zira left the orgy with a lightness in his step that he hadn’t felt since before, well, _ before. _Perhaps sliding teeth and claws into the body of that useless Principality of the Eastern Gate had felt like this, the gold-red icor of angel’s blood burning his tongue even as it had tasted of home and iron and cinnamon. Perhaps this, an orgy with a follow-up of fomenting rebellion, held a neat second-place to gutting the corporation of an angel. Which, really, called for a celebratory drink!

There was a glut of inns and taverns in the city of Rome, which left Zira the difficult position of deciding where to go. He passed through several, some filled with flirtatious men and women, some filled with espousing philosophers, and some filled with soldiers settled in for a drink and a moment of collegiality in a spare late-morning sunbeam. Zira liked the feel of the last one; something about back corners brought to life by splashes of red.

Red on the soldiers’ uniforms.

Red in the wine being poured by steady hands.

And there, at the bar, with red like a crown of fire, was a pillar of an angel. Well, an Archangel.

Tsophiel’s hair, which had fallen in tight curls to below his shoulders when they’d last met in Mesopotamia, had been sheared to match the local Roman style, leaving the long column of his neck bare to the dusty light of the inn. It was quite the enticing sight. Zira felt himself smiling as he dropped a hip onto a stool.

“I find myself deeply curious - what is an angel such as yourself doing in a tavern such as this?”

“‘Archangel’, demon. I know I’ve corrected you before.”

“And yet, my dear, you’ve returned to calling me ‘demon’. I’d forgotten how rude your echelon was, so very high and mighty. What a pity, really.”

A deep, serrated sigh climbed its way out of the Archangel, as if it had begun in his toes and worked it way out his flaring nostrils. He sounded like a sacrificial bull the day it began to be fatted.

“Zira -” 

“Well done, dear! Not so hard, was it?” he cut in before Tsophiel could get any further. The angel, er, Archangel, had sounded rather rough-voiced. “It is a pleasure to run into you, and in this wonderful city, of all places!”

Tsophiel sighed, again, before being quiet for a space of almost a minute. Zira fought down the urge to interrupt the silence, though he desperately wanted to ask why the angel’s humors had become so unbalanced and melancholic. Was that still the prevailing philosophy of medicine? Oh, perhaps that was the Greeks?

“You’ve been assigned to Rome, then?” the angel eventually broke the quiet between them, looking as if he might actually be interested in the potential answer.

Too bad his question was risible. 

“Assigned?!” Zira coughed, laughing something sharp and ugly. “Hardly. I am too below Hell’s notice to be assigned anything. I had no rank in Heaven, so no rank followed me down to Hell. And they do so like their ranks, the disgusting lot of them. No, I was a cur let loose - too afraid that I would bite, but too much potential to just put down.”

“You are hardly a cur, Zira. You truly believe your brethren think so low of you?”

“They are hardly brothers or sisters of mine. Princes, and Dukes, and Generals, and horse shit. I had enough of that entitlement and hierarchy in Heaven, why would I want more of it after escaping?”

“Escaping!” the Archangel sputtered, looking delightfully affronted. “Really?! That’s what you call having been cast away from the love of the All Mighty?!”

“If I could have run before Lucifer went rebellious, I would have.”

Tsophiel’s face was a mask of shock - wide, unblinking eyes, his mouth hanging in a wet little ‘o’, and the normal color of his cheeks turned a bright pink. It was rather attractive, actually, especially in light of Zira’s newly acquired expertise. 

Thankfully, the expression was also hilarious. 

Pride and dignity had always been character flaws of the Archangels, as far as Zira was concerned. As the demon’s laughter peeled through the inn, Tsophiel’s confusion was rapidly replaced by the blank of chiseled stone.

“Oh, my dear angel, please don’t be insulted, please!” Zira forced out between a last few guffaws. “I meant no harm. Your shock was just too, too perfect, really. Please, please - tell me; what brings you to this city of politics and indulgence?”

That seemed to return the angel to more stable footing, the neutrality of his expression setting into something that looked at least related to comfortable. 

“I am to bear witness.”

“Yes, bear witness, yes, yes,” he responded, waving a dismissive hand. “But to what?”

The light in the small inn condensed for a moment, hanging reverently around the angel’s shoulders. “An empire is set to change,” Tsophiel intoned, his dark copper eyebrows lifting elegantly over his golden eyes.

Zira took a moment to think _ He’s going to have to hide those, soon_, before huffing a laugh, and giving a fluttering, unimportant gesture of a hand. “Oh yes, _ that _.”

The angel, er, Archangel looked stunned, his perfect posture curving into something quite a bit more ‘C’ shaped. 

“That?! What do you mean, ‘that’? You… what? You know? How? I, that, I mean - how?”

He felt his shoulders shake, a small shimmy of self-satisfaction; it wasn’t everyday that one got to surprise an angel.

Carefully insouciant and blase, Zira pointed out, as if to a slow-minded child, “Hell may consider me a feral dog, but it wasn’t an accident that I survived Heaven with no rank worth remembering. I survived the Fall with no friend to meet me at the bottom, to replenish my power and see me through. I’m a survivor, dear angel.” Letting the weight of those words fall all around them, Zira leaned closer to red-haired angel, and smiled. “And one must be aware to survive.”

“You are… extra ordinary,” Tsophiel said before seeming to catch himself, sitting up straight and quickly adding, “… for a demon.”

Something warm bubbled in his chest, and Zira could only smile and laugh. “Oh, don’t hurt yourself trying to compliment me, my dear. But enough of this talk politic - I think I should like to distract you. What do you say?”

“I have a duty, demon.”

“Yes, yes, to bear witness - but not right _ now_. Gaius Julius isn’t going to be extinguished this moment. You can spare an afternoon for a meal.”

“A meal? Do you - I… do you mean _ ingesting_?” he asked, his expression piqued.

“Do you not?” Zira replied, feeling more confused than offended. 

“Heaven, no!” Tsophiel nearly shouted, apparently determined to be clear. “I don’t… do… that, it, it just seems so vulgar!”

One would think Zira had asked if he fornicated, the Archangel was suddenly wound so tight. Or if he made rude faces in the direction of the All Mighty.

“Well,” Zira drawled casual and gentle. “You drink. Eating isn’t that far off.”

“I do no such thing!”

Zira blinked, once, very slowly.

“You’re holding a cup of wine, my dear. It's right there. In front of you.”

Tsophiel looked down to where his hands rested on the bar, laced around a heavy earthen mug, as if surprised to find himself doing exactly as the demon had said.

“Oh. Yes. I…” the red-haired angel started, stuttering slightly. “I just hold it, you see. It helps to keep attention off. Much less conspicuous amid the humans, all, you know... ingesting as they do. It would be stranger for them if I were, that is, more likely that they would see, and I’d have to put more work into, into, not being seen, and...”

“Please shut up,” Zira cut in, smiling broadly despite himself. “You sound like an idiot, and as attractive as that is, you should probably stop.”

The angel’s mouth closed with a quiet clack of teeth, and Zira had to fight down a giggle. _ An absolute idiot, _ he thought fondly. Moving in until he had bypassed the angel’s personal space, Zira fluttered a hand, gesturing up, having decided that he’d put in quite enough cajoling.

“Come now, my dear. It’s time for you to get a little hands-on, as it were. Less witnessing, more doing. Up, up! Off your fennel and wiggle on!”

If the angel had either a clue or no clue what Zira was asking, he didn’t say, only stood obediently and allowed the demon to usher him out of the inn and on to something different, and new.


	5. Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every action has consequences. Every consequence must be born.

Apparently, the assassination of an Emperor was one step too far.

<->

Rome became rather less interesting after the exchange of Emperors was finalized. The conspiratorial talk had been of a return to a Republic-style government, but apparently those holding the reins of the conspiracy had made different plans. And poor Gaius Julius - no one deserved to be remembered as “Little Soldier’s Shoes.” But, such was the cruelty of cultural memory. 

There were many roads which led out of the city of Rome; Zira picked one, and began to walk, leaving behind the villa, which hadn’t seen its proper owner in 15 years, and the indulgences of the city. Mountains passed beneath the steady tread of his feet, rivers and valleys, craggy passes and wide, grass-covered meadows. 

Without preamble, a slimy, acidic coil of pressure began to build in Zira’s gut as he found himself traversing a mountain-shadowed valley somewhere in the Gaulish lands. A well beaten road extended endlessly before him, with the sky turning softly from dusk into night, and he felt… _ something. _If he had been anything other than a demon it would have burned, the feeling building inside his human-shaped form, a mouth with serrated teeth and caustic-slick saliva gnawing on the indistinct substance of his body. He could not imagine how a human might react to such a feeling, and tried not to remember how an Angel would.

Scanning his surroundings, Zira could find nothing, and his unease climbed. No people along the wind of the road, no animals in the sprawling mountain valley or the sparse trees, and no bugs in the ground below him for at least 100 feet in every direction. Even the grasses and flowers to either side of the road were slowly turning dry and yellow, crumbling dead in an ever widening circle. 

There was nothing for him to fight, and the nothing was getting closer. 

As Zira readied to bring his wings, brittle-bone yellow and jagged as they were - because _ up _ was always an option - the ground before him ruptured, lifted and split like diseased skin. And from the cracked boil of dirt rose a form. Then another. And another. And another, until Zira found himself surrounded by nine almost-human shapes shrouded in dirt. _ Demons. _

Of the nine demons, one faced Zira directly, standing brashly in the middle of the road, looking vaguely male, and with his casually calm shoulders draped in grey, moldering linen and emanating a smell like waste and rot. His skin was similar to Zira’s, in that it was pale and slightly ashen, but there the resemblance ended. Where Zira’s human skin was white like sun-bleached bones, the demon facing him looked yellowed, almost jaundiced with jagged, papery tears along his cheeks and hands. And his eyes - Zira’s iris were the color of an ever-breaking storm, violence and thunder dancing in the air always a few moments from descending. The demon’s eyes, though, were edge to edge solid, sticky tar-black. It was an unsettling emptiness, and it made Zira’s skin race in chilled bumps.

But fear would not do. Zira felt his face pull into a snarl, with something much more suitable than fear. After a moment, he let the snarl pull, and pull, shifting his jaw wider, filling it with three rows of jagged teeth. The rest of his body followed, until Zira was crouched on four limbs, wings mantled, the talon at the top of each wing pointed low and ready, his scorpion tail lashing, drops of venom flung in sharp arcs. 

That was much better. His beastial form was much more suited to fighting for its life. 

“Now, really?” the lead demon asked, his smile wide and relaxed despite Zira’s abrupt shift of shape. “That isn’t necessary, brother. We come in, well, not peace, but certainly not to fight. You see - we’ve been watching you.”

“That makes me feel _ so _much better, thank you,” Zira growled back, the gravel-roar of his beastial throat echoing around them.

The demon’s smile turned into a gratified little moue. “Oh, wonderful! And Prince Beelzebub said I wasn’t very good at diplomacy!”

Zira almost rose from his crouch at that. The lead demon seemed genuinely pleased. Had sarcasm fallen out of fashion in Hell? It had been a while since he’d been there. A few thousand years, or so, actually.

With a small self-satisfied harrumph, the lead demon continued, “As I was saying - we’ve been watching you, brother, and we’ve been so pleased with your progress. Well... most of us. High Duke Dagon is still irritated that you stole her thunder back at the Garden,” the black-eyed demon leaned slightly forward, as if sharing a secret. “She’d been planning to sneak into the Garden herself, sow a bit of discord, tempt those newborns into, well, anything really. And then, we take a look, and there you were, already hard at work even though no one had sent you.”

Zira would have been an idiot to keep his attention fixed on whatever the lead demon was saying, instead of studying the others who had surrounded him. He set about cataloging them; lead demon - maggot and amphibian, second demon - rat, third - rat and amphibian, fourth - lizard, fifth - horse (really? A horse, that was the basis of their beastial form?), sixth - maggot and copious amounts of slime, seventh - snake, and eighth - another lizard and some kind of flying insect. None of them were large creatures (except the horse, but really, a horse?!?), and none were made for physically fighting the way he was. Which meant that he was screwed. 

He was surrounded by demons of _ Rank. _ And they didn’t need to fight physically in order to take someone down.

Zira’s tail rattled, and the mantling of his wings shifted closer to his body.

The lead demon droned on.

“And we did check if someone had sent you - we checked a lot. A few people didn’t make it through the checking, but sure enough - you’d gone and messed up the Garden all on your own. It was a hit throughout Hell! We lost you for a bit after that - well, there was so much going on - humans everywhere! Things to do, people to damn. And, really, as far as we were concerned, one solid act of evil doesn’t an effective agent make, if you know what I mean,” the demon shrugged while he said it, but didn’t seem to actually care if Zira _ knew what he meant. _“But, then, Rome! Rome, my brother.”

At this, the demon’s solid-black eyes seemed to refocus on Zira, the weight of his gaze pinning him to the ground. Without his permission, Zira felt his hindquarters sink and the tension of preparation leak out of his shoulders, until he was sitting, upright and attentive, like a well trained dog. Stillness, in every fragment of his body. The black-eyed demon smiled, and Zira wanted to wretch as his mind battered against the inside of his skull, desperately trying to force his body to move.

“Getting little Caligula killed was a stroke of genius, brother. And then, keeping the tyranny in place with another Emperor! And so quickly! It was very well done.”

The lead demon stepped forward, out of formation with the other demons, his smile stretching his face until the toad-shaped pustule on top of his head had to reach down and keep his left eye from being squeezed from its socket. 

“So well done, brother. It’s been decided that a talent like yours shouldn’t be wasted.”

Zira wanted to shudder at the implication, but the stillness of those black eyes continued to hold him immobile. This was it. He was going to be destroyed, eaten and absorbed. Millennia of doing as he pleased, causing chaos and indulging as it struck him. He’d fought off countless demons when he’d first Fallen. Collapsed like a discarded rag on the floors of Hell, he’d lashed out blindly at the first thing to come too close, letting his body unfold, fighting and devouring with what little was left of his power. He’d done it again, and again, until there had been enough of his self again that he could think, enough of him to get up, to take shape, to hide behind teeth and claws and a venom-tipped tail. Then he’d devoured more, until he’d been able to breakthrough the walls of Hell, to fight his way up, and up, looking for something like the light of Heaven. He’d found the World. He’d made it his home. 

And now, suddenly, it was over.

The lead demon took another step forward, smile widening until his right eye, too, had to be held in place. “With the powers of Hell run through me,” he intoned.

Zira tried to find something like peace within himself. He’d already been stripped of that which had been Heaven, after all.

“With the power of the Great Lord Lucifer’s hand guiding me.”

He’d already been filled to the brink with nothingness, until there was no room for anything else. 

“I pass this judgment on you, Fallen Brother.”

He would miss the World - the _ wanting _ , the _ having. _

“We are the Fallen. We will prevail against that which is Holy in this world…”

He hoped that idiot Archangel didn’t get into too much trouble, since he wouldn’t be around to see it.

He also hoped that the demon working himself to killing him would get on with it. Locked into stillness as he was, there was only so much _ intoning _that Zira could take.

As if granting his wish, the black-eyed demon fell quiet and raised both of his dry, flaking hands, a bright burning white nothing cupped between them. 

Another step forward, and the demon was in touching distance of Zira. A last step, and the white nothing was being brought down, touching the space between his leonine eyes, swallowing the world in burning white. Zira’s body was abruptly his again, but only long enough for his muscles to go numb, and then erupt in pain. He hit the ground jaw-first, felt his wings collapse at angles that would have hurt if not for the consuming agony that was bleeding its way from his head down through the rest of his form.

He'd never imagined that being eaten alive would hurt quite so much.

As the white nothingness devoured Zira’s everything, he thought he heard a voice.

“I’m Hastur, by the way. Duke Hastur. Welcome to the Ranks of Hell - I look forward to working with you.”

Then even the white light was gone, and Zira was nothing.

<->

Robbing what looked like a man who was collapsed on the side of the road, in the middle of nowhere, all alone and defenseless, seemed like a smart thing to do.

Until that person woke up, eyes snapping open, pupils dilated until only a thin ring of storm-cloud blue outlined a yawning darkness. Until that person sat up with inhuman speed, grabbed onto the hands which had been pawing through his clothes, and _ pulled _hard. Until that hard yank had the former robber falling, tumbling, toward the head… the face… the open mouth of what had been a defenseless, unconscious, easy victim. 

Robbing what looked like a man who was collapsed on the side of the road, in the middle of nowhere, all alone and defenseless, seemed like a smart thing to do.

Unless that man was not a man. Unless that man was a demon newly Demoted, his Fall made deeper, made worse, his power made stronger. Unless that man was liable to eat an unsuspecting, defenseless would-be robber. 

A shame how some smart ideas turn out.

<->


	6. A Forest Floor and a Spill of Hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation in a damp forest.  
Or - Zira's travels through history!

Zira found an outcropping of rock and settled in, enjoying what he could of the cool damp of the forest floor. Folding his wings back and away, whipping his tail until it changed into something more rope-and-tassel and less scales-and-venom, he went about transforming. With a yawn he let his mouth shift, until only a single row of teeth cut across the top and bottom of his jaw. There was nothing to do about the color of his eyes or fur, but his general size he was able to bring down a little, until he might, by someone willing to see what no longer was, be mistaken for one of the cave lions that had once roamed across the northern lands. 

Once comfortable, Zira settled, and waited, letting his thoughts wander. 

Four years had passed since he’d been stopped on a lonely mountain road, demons rising up from Hell with one goal in mind, and he still wished that he could outrun it.

A _ Marquees_. Zira snarled silently just thinking about it. A _ Rank_. His muscles shuddered for good measure. He’d been quite happy avoiding the eyes of Hell for several thousand years, letting the civilizations of the World roll by, the little indulgences intriguing him, seeding chaos and dissent as the mood struck him. But, the avoidance part clearly hadn’t been as successful as he’d hoped. He’d been _ watched _ , and apparently made some of his _ brothers _oh so proud. It was repulsive.

And now, worse than the inflicted Rank, he was here. Because he’d been _sent_. What was it the Archangel had asked all those years ago, back after that fateful orgy? Right - _assigned__. _Zira had found himself _assigned _just outside of Londinium, up in the Celtic Isles. With an _assignment _that was either a testament to Hell’s high-opinion of him, or was a thinly-veiled ploy to get him messily discorporated. Neither option was preferable. 

The sound of footfalls through the loamy underbrush reached him long before he saw the source, and he was relieved to be drawn out of his thoughts. Mostly relieved, any way. As he listened to the quietly approaching sounds, tension rippled through his shoulders, needling like fear as well as anticipation.

After only a few minutes, slashes of sunlight revealed a person, a human, a woman walking carefully over the rough ground. She was a handsome woman, with dark brown eyes lined in the map of hardship and age, and vibrant red hair streaked with silver. Her hair was not as red as a certain Archangel’s, but was wild and alive nonetheless. She wore rough-hewn, blue fabric strapped down with leather armor, the blades tied at her hips and thighs battered from well use. The two younger women who flanked her, hair as alive and eyes as dark, wore similar armor and a similar look of determination on their faces.

It was the youngest of the three women who saw him first, her gasp ringing through the shadows of the forest. 

The woman in the lead pulled a sword as if it were an extension of her arm, sudden and as ready and obedient as a flexed hand. The long rope of her plaited hair swung back from where it had draped over her shoulder, revealing lines of beautiful blue and brown knot work down the side of her face, and traveling into the collar of her clothes. As sudden as the blade in her hand, the woman was crouched at the ready, the two younger women each a step behind her, each with weapons drawn.

Zira did not move, only breathed in a slow, unnecessary manner, and waited. It didn’t take over long for the eldest of the women to decide that the danger, though present, did not warrant hyper vigilance; she stood from her crouch, leaving her blade nakedly ready in her hand, and took a cautious step forward. The two younger women tried to stop her, but she shrugged them off and, after a quick exchange of words, eventually sent them away. Zira suspected that they would not go far, but he knew the verge of hearing distance wasn’t difficult to achieve in a forest crowded with trees, brush, and stone. 

Step by cautious step, the woman and her living-flame hair came closer, and Zira did not move - only waited.

When she had come within blade distance of what must have been to her a terrifying beast, the woman stopped and her dark brown gaze lifted to meet the flickering-storm of his eyes.

Zira had a disquieting, up-close view as, between one moment and the next, she was no longer human. Dark brown irises bled to copper-green and fulgurite.

“Demon,” she hissed across blunt, human teeth.

“Good Horseman War,” Zira answered, inclining his head.

Because, yes - he’d been sent to consort with one of the Horsemen, _ to consort with War. _ Hell was either testing him or punishing him, and he didn’t care for either thought.

She laughed, her un-weaponed hand touching lightly at her lips in a strange imitation of childlike bashfulness. He had a trepidatious moment to wonder if she could possibly know his thoughts, but such concern was quickly replaced when she spoke, “Another useless emissary of Hell? Just how many of you are there, that you are so disposable?”

Wondering just how many demons Hell had thrown at the Horsemen, and this one in particular, Zira slowed his racing mind, and thought hard about his reply.

“I am no useless demon, Horseman War - Hell has sent you a Marquees, to show its respect,” he ground the words on his back teeth before forcing them out in a way he hoped was believable.

“And? Still sounds useless to me,” she scoffed, catching her braid to play with the loose end. 

“Suetonius thought I had something worth listening to.”

That gave her pause, and she let her braid fall back over her shoulder.

“Suetonius… the Governor?”

Suetonius - the Roman Governor of the heathen Isles. The leader of the armies against which War in her human host was currently driving successful, bloody rebellion. The man that Zira may have quietly passed a message to, warning of an area revolt. The man who, upon hearing of said revolt, had ordered the nearby trading town of Londinium - normally populated by retired soldiers and merchants - be evacuated before the oncoming army of Celts could arrive.

Zira smiled lazily, letting the low light of the forest floor catch on his fangs.

“You know many men named Suetonius?” he asked as his shoulders swayed gently. 

It wasn’t every day that one had the chance to shock and insult a Horseman. Mostly because such a day might be one’s last, so Zira savored it while he could.

“What have you done, demon?” she spat, her whole body vibrating with seething rage.

Shrugging loosely, Zira replied, “As I was bade.”

“You and those who hold your reins will know me, will feel my weapon, will weep ichor, that you _ dare _to have-”

“I don’t fear your, good Horseman War,” Zira cut into the slowly increasing volume of the Horseman’s tirade. The absolute silence that followed was pregnant with a wonderful combination of gratification and saturated terror. “I respect you, a great deal. Even like you, on right occasion. But I don’t fear you, I’m sorry to say. You are a scourge and nightmare for _ this _world, but nowhere else. If you kill me, end this shell of a body, I return to Hell, and go about my time. Some other ‘useless demon’ will take my place until I’ve scrounged up another corporeal form. Tedious, that, but that’s Hell for you.”

War took a trembling, violently restrained step forward.

“What have you done?” she asked like a fist curling. 

Zira shook his mane and slowly crossed one paw over the other.

“Londinium has been evacuated. When you march tonight, your human army will find nothing but buildings and dust.”

The sound that came from the Horseman was unexplainable, echoing through the ether, buffeting Zira’s corporeal ears with a clash of blades and shields. His etheric self felt bloodied. Every molecule and ephemeral particle of his being longed to run from that sound.

He allowed himself a flinch, his eyes pinching shut for a breath-stolen moment. 

“Useless, wretched demon!” War screamed with her human voice, loud and wet in a way that sounded of broken blood vessels. “Fallen bog scum! Why did Hell send you, you Swordless fucking filth! Why are you interfering in works beyond you?! You unforgivable, irredeemable coward!!”

Zira had been called worse - _ brother _came to mind - so it was relatively easy to let the insults wash over him.

With a calm that was entirely manufactured, Zira answered the bellowing nightmare, “I was ordered to grant you a gift, oh Horseman.”

The naked blade still clutched in her hand came up and pointed into the space between Zira’s eyes.

“By having the city in my path emptied?” she snarled, her teeth flashing like bone-shards in the faint light of the forest floor. 

“Yes,” he returned. Then he waited.

Slowly, the rage in her eyes settled, banked like a quieted flame, and moment by moment a light much like curiosity rose in its place. 

“Alright… a gift, you say...” she drawled, patient as a strangling vine. “Why don’t you explain to me this ‘gift’?”

The urge to bow his head was insistent, but it would have had the unfortunate side effect of driving her still steady blade into the bones of his eye socket, so he refrained. Instead he sat up a little straighter, feeling his tail whip around his haunches in agitated arches. He’d been an Angel once. He’d Fallen with no allies to catch him at the bottom. And he’d survived. Without trying he’d made a name for himself in Hell. And as much as he hated it, he’d been bestowed Rank in the Host of Hell, something he knew wasn’t a common occurrence. He’d done all of that, and made it out the other side.

He could face down a creature destined to bring about the end of the world.

“Good Horseman War,” he started, figuring being polite couldn’t hurt. “You lead a people with fire in their blood. But the flame is only recently stoked. Before the Romans betrayed them, the Iceni and the other Celtic tribes were content, were they not? The Romans’ betrayal ignited them, brought forth their capacity for battle. If you had taken Londinium, killed those there - well, Horseman, who’s to say that victory wouldn't make the Iceni sedate, contented herdsmen once again?”

“I would make sure that doesn’t happen,” War scoffed, dismissive. 

“But why should you, good Horseman?” he pressed, gentle and sinuous, sweetly cajoling. “Why require that effort of yourself, when the seeds of battle can be planted and nurtured without your work? Would you not be happy just to reap?”

“My Brother reaps souls - I just walk them to the veil.”

“And how lovely for you, to stand back, and watch the humans get themselves there. A happy little farm of rebellion and blood - while you become free to turn your eye elsewhere.”

“And how does an empty city, a battle un-fought, get me that, you stupid demon?”

“By letting the fight become unending.”

With the sword still held even with his face, she gestured, urging him to continue. He had her now; perhaps she didn’t yet believe, but she was interested. 

He cleared his throat with a short coughing growl, and never let his eyes leave hers. “If the Iceni were to fail in routing the Romans from the Isles… think of the backlash that will come once the Romans bring reinforcements; the oppression, the violence. Your Iceni and all the other tribes will know defeat, and will bristle beneath it. They will seeth and hate. The fight will become unending - because it will be their everyday, every morning, every night, their lives from birth to death. When they do not harvest food, they will harvest rage and rebellion. It will live in their blood, the blood of their children, and long into the days to come. Give your current people victory and they will be satisfied. Deny them, incite them, and they will wage war until this day is long forgotten. It will fester, like something from your Brother Pestilence, spreading until it is born into their bones.”

Zira wasn’t sure he believed his own words, but that didn’t matter - it was War’s belief that would determine his fate. And, very slowly, with the agonizing progress of a warhorse through churned earth, a smile began to pull at War’s mouth, baring teeth framed by red-chapped lips.

The blade lowered from between his eyes.

“You’re different, demon. I might decide to like you.”

A great, billowing sigh escaped Zira before he could stop it. It left a sour aftertaste of relief in his mouth even as War giggled in response, a discordant, childish sound.

Trying for dignity, Zira huffed, “I am humbled by your esteem, dear Horseman.”

War gave him a reckless crack of laughter and a playful swipe of her sword through the underbrush. “We don’t take sides; Hell knows this. The death we cause is… equitable. It does not care where souls end up afterward.” It was said with something that had a passing resemblance to kindness, as if she were attempting gentleness but did not know its proper shape. 

Zira shrugged, “Hell knows we won’t win your favor. We bear gifts to you, anyway. It is respect, dear Horseman - only what you are due.”

“Yes… I think I might like you, _ useful _demon. But I warn you - if your gambit fails, I won’t swiftly give your body to my Brother, Death. No - I’ll make sure you stay on this plane for a long, long time.”

Zira smiled, as much as he could with a lion’s muzzle; there was something quite admirable about War and her dedication. Her goal was singular, and her fixation unbreakable. The thought of emulating her was unpleasant at best, but that didn’t stop him admiring what he would never be.

With quiet respect, Zira bowed his head, never letting his gaze leave the Horseman and her flame-born hair.

Within moments, the fire of the Horseman faded from the woman’s eyes, and Zira found himself faced with a human once more. But War had found a well worthy host in this particular woman, for she showed no fear in the face of a lion intent upon her. Her expression grew grim, taught with resolve, and she lifted a fist to her mouth in a gesture that spoke of respect. 

“You are an omen, great beast. For good, or ill?”

He liked that she questioned him - she may have been physically smaller than the men she led in battle, but the woman had forged herself a spine made of iron.

“I am an omen of blood and chaos, Bringer of War, Bearer of Victory,” he intoned, careful to keep his voice to gentle human levels despite the encumbrance offered by a mouth full of daggers. It was an accommodation that he’d not needed to make for the Horseman. “Your victory will not be swift. It will not be easy. But you will stain the Earth with the color of your hair.”

Boudica, _ Victorious _as her name meant in the Celtic tongues, smiled at what must have sounded like prophecy. Zira just hoped it was the truth. He had promised War, after all.

The women gave him a small bow, a tilt of her head, her dark eyes never leaving his face. Then she was turned away, her unprotected back to him, and returned the way she’d come, back to her daughters, back to her army, back to her rebellion and its bloody-minded plans. 

Boudica and her army would march on an empty Londinium that night. Zira watched from a distance, carefully invisible to their human sight, but there was no missing the way rage caught in Boudica’s eyes, the way the rage spread like infection through her soldiers just as the fires they lit spread through the abandoned city. No matter the outcome, the final fate of that one Iceni woman, Zira suspected that the fire of that rage would long be memory in the blood of her people. 

<->

War did not track him down to casually remove his skin, finger-width by finger-width, from his corporeal form.

Then, after a full moon came and went, Zira received a scroll that smelled overwhelmingly of burning peat and rancid offal; it read _ Well done _and left the tips of his fingers scorched and aching.

Test passed, apparently. 

<->

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this might count as Zira actually doing something evil. It feels pretty evil to me...

**Author's Note:**

> I don't actually know where this is going. Like, there are so many possibilities! What about good old Crowley/Tsophiel POV? Will I get myself to write smut?! Will I manage to make Zira actually evil??!!?? So many questions.


End file.
